


Inkling

by beautifultoastdream



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: But Danarius sure is a creepy mofo, Character Study, Dorian's journey of self-discovery, Gen, Growing Up, Growing up Vint, Learning to think of slaves as people, NO rape, No abuse, Slavery, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 08:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6747175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifultoastdream/pseuds/beautifultoastdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian has grown up, fled his country, and made a life for himself that spits on the ashes of everything the rulers of Tevinter stand for, but he rarely has cause to open up one certain corner of his memories. There the image of that slave rests, pliant and beautiful and not quite real, until Dorian stumbles upon the real thing once again.</p><p>The Tevinter altus and the Tevinter fugitive: two scenes years and worlds apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inkling

**Author's Note:**

> An idea that demanded to be written. I like the idea of Dorian's mental journey from child of Tevinter power to grinning rebel, and I thought an outside perspective on Fenris-as-slave would be interesting. We know Dorian hates slavery, but we don't see him coming to that conclusion; we know Fenris was suffering, but those who knew him every day back then probably wouldn't perceive or care about it.
> 
> This is sensitive subject matter, so if I apologize if it seems like I'm making light of slavery and abuse. All I can say is that that wasn't my intention at all, and I hope you take this in the spirit which it was written. Enjoy!

Dorian Pavus is a young man who has decided two things about his life. First, that banquets are boring, and secondly, that he doesn’t want to marry. For a member of House Pavus, the first isn’t to be said out loud and the second is unthinkable. He’s not thrilled with either.

Unfortunately, if he wants to avoid marriage, he has to keep attending the damned banquets. Social life in the Imperium runs on a tide of soups and expensive wines; under the facade of pleasurable meals, agreements are made and lives forever altered. Dorian, haunted by the specter of a marriage like his parents’, knows he will have to keep being seen at the right occasions—a dutiful son, of course, but always ready to do something to prove that he’s still not ready for a betrothal. Something immature, like spit on the floor or object to the use of blood magic in mixed company.

The reception for Magister Danarius is no exception. Danarius has no marriageable female relatives, but his opinion carries weight in virtually all matters, and his goodwill is eagerly courted by many like House Pavus. One does not entertain this man lightly. A good show of rebellion in front of him ought to keep Dorian safe for months, maybe years.

Danarius arrives in due course. He is, for such an impressive man, unimpressive: tall, but going soft, with a neatly-clipped beard and ears just pointed enough to look odd without truly betraying any unusual blood. He has fine robes and many attendants, and if he wants, he can have all of them bled dry for his own amusement. A true magister.

Dorian bides his time as he watches the little procession crossing the atrium, waiting for the right moment to make the right kind of scene. They have not seen him yet. Mother and Father wait in front of the doors to the main part of the house, attired in their best, but Dorian is not important enough to be part of the main reception. He will have his chance at dinner, he knows. As he watches, Danarius reaches Mother and Father, and the magister draws to a halt to be fawned over. His retinue stops a few paces behind.

At first, he thinks Danarius has chosen to summon a spirit to attend him. A vulgar display of power, in Dorian’s opinion, and one which will probably end with someone being injured. It’s well-known that many of the greatest magisters double their retinues not only to display their own consequence, but to increase the number of bodies between themselves and the consequences. (Hah. He rather likes that remark. A pity it only works in the trade tongue.) But the figure following Danarius is too solid, too human-looking for a spirit, and Dorian blinks in surprise when he realizes what exactly he is seeing.

A slave. _The_ slave.

Danarius’s wolf.

Of all the stories told about Danarius—and there are many—this is the one Dorian hears most often. An impossible creation, a piece of living runecraft worth a fortune in lyrium. Some say, not very loudly, that the magister must be a little mad to spend so much money and effort without even selecting a better slave for his work.

Dorian thinks he made the perfect choice.

The slave follows two paces behind the magister. He is an elf of a height with his master but sleek and lean, broad-shouldered for one of his race, with the darker skin of an islander and a striking head of silvery-white hair. He is barefoot and wears only leggings, like many slaves; unlike most, there is a heavy leather baldric slung across his bared chest, and an absolute monster of a greatsword resting against his back. He moves with a loose-limbed grace, compensating for the heft of the weapon seemingly without thought. His only other accoutrement is a pair of wickedly serrated metal gauntlets, like animal’s claws. The taut form is limned out in delicate twining silver lines, softness against harshness.

Deceptive. If a tenth of the rumors are true, those tattoos are no mere beauty marks.

An elf with a greatsword is one thing. A slave with a weapon is quite another. If anyone present has been doubting Danarius’s wolf is well-leashed, they doubt it no longer. The magister seems wholly unconcerned by the fact that his property is behind his back, armed, and doubtless fully capable of killing him.

But the slave tilts his head just the merest fraction to survey the room like a good bodyguard should, and Dorian’s breath catches. A little too slender for his tastes, true, but full of rangy power. Absolutely _leashed_ power, bent to the service of another without any apparent pain or resistance.

Dorian is not an idiot. He has seen slaves before, elves trudging at their masters’ heels, and knows how much they might be suffering. This one, though, has a smooth and unclouded expression, and the brilliant green eyes look more like exquisite chips of malachite than anything with a soul behind them. The lyrium gleams brightly in the light streaming down from the atrium’s windows, standing out proudly against the tan skin like a beautifully-laid set of silverware on a soft tablecloth. The slave is … a work of art.

Dorian swallows hard. As a young man beginning to discover his own tastes, he is interested. As a lover of fine craftsmanship, he is enthralled. He barely notices in time that his parents are beckoning him to come and greet the magister who made this incredible thing.

At supper, his plans are disarrayed. Danarius is not what he expected: too collected, too unconcerned with fashion. Almost too crude for a member of the magisterium, one of whom might cut a man's throat for a display of power but wouldn't dream of doing so while wearing last year's fashions. Plain vulgarity will not ward him off.

But Dorian is beginning to sense that it will not be needed. Danarius is not a man who can be managed, not even in the genteel manner of Minrathous society, and if the Maker is merciful there will be little chance of him having any interest in Dorian’s immediate future. Dorian himself breathes a sigh of relief and sneaks another glance at the wolf, who stands motionless a half-dozen paces behind Danarius’s chair. The sword has been left aside, considered inappropriate during a friendly dinner. The gauntlets remain.

The malachite gaze is sweeping the room calmly, but with care. Bolder than a typical slave, but typical is not the word, is it? Truly Danarius’s bodyguard, not only his ornament. Watching for threats, even here.

For a moment Dorian is moved by sheer mad curiosity, and he shifts just a little in his chair to meet the slave’s eyes. The elf regards him for a moment—assesses him—and moves on, with no sign of emotion or concern. He has been considered and found not to be a threat. By a _slave._

This ought to irritate him, but Dorian finds himself somehow agreeably diverted by the notion. Someone has, at least, read his intentions right: he has no love for anyone in this room, but neither is he a threat of the kind a runecraft bodyguard should concern himself with. He is nobody, really. For a moment, he fancies he understands the slave’s lot in life. Should he, too, tattoo himself and stand motionless behind his father? Oh, the _scandal._

“I see you like my little wolf,” says a voice. Dorian starts, almost dropping his glass. Danarius’s eyes are the ones fixed on him now, and he finds them much less agreeable than the slave’s. Odd to think property preferable to a peer of Tevinter. Still, Dorian does his best to shrug off his surprise.

“I admire craftsmanship,” he says with a smile. “And one so rarely gets a chance to see such work up close. I am truly in awe, my lord magister.”

“Are you?” Danarius cocks his head, just a little. “But you haven’t seen him up close, have you? Fenris, come here.”

The slave moves forward with the same loping grace. He reaches Danarius’s left side and drops easily onto his knees, bowing his head. He says nothing.

“No, no, dear boy.” Danarius absentmindedly pats the slave on the head. “Go to Altus Pavus. Surely he wishes to see you better.”

Dorian’s father almost—almost—makes a sound of protest. Dorian can discern the noise that he doesn’t make, reading it in the tension of his face like a deaf man reading spoken words from another’s lips. They have already fought about the first and greatest reason why Dorian will not marry, and while his parents may limit the company of his male friends to “keep him from unnecessary distractions,” they cannot countermand the order of a great magister who sends a beautiful slave to him. They say nothing as the slave rounds the table and kneels, complacent and silent as ever, in front of Dorian.

This close, he finds himself revisiting the assumptions he made earlier. While the lyrium may contain the slave’s true power, the slave himself would be a formidable opponent. He can see the calluses where the baldric has rubbed the elf’s skin, the rough patches left by the weight of a greatsword against the muscled back. He notes with interest that the lyrium runs cleanly through places where many sharp scars should have disrupted its patterns, and wonders idly if the rune refreshes itself when it is injured.

Before he can stop himself, he lays a hand on the slave’s head. The shock of it runs up his arm: the slave _boils_ with energy. Touching him is like licking pure lyrium off a lightning staff, and it makes Dorian shiver. Danarius watches, amused, and his parents silently struggle to hold back their objections.

“Fascinating,” Dorian manages to say. The words come out a little hoarse. The slave’s hair is soft and silky under his hand; through the strands he can see the proud jut of the nose, the merest curve of full dark lips. “Practically a living mana reserve,” Dorian continues with some effort. "He has no magic of his own?”

“None whatsoever.” Danarius leans back in his chair a little, hands folded, perfectly at ease. “There’s magic in the bloodline—another pup in the same litter had some, though none worth mentioning. If you intend to make yourself a wolf of your own, Altus Pavus, I’ll save you some time and advise you to keep to material without magic. Even if they succeed in taking the markings, they become locked in a cycle of perpetually draining themselves and go mad. I lost two or three quite promising ones before I found the best approach.” His eyes dance in a way that Dorian finds disconcerting. He does not want to share anything, not even a moment’s amusement, with this man and his off-kilter mind. “Fortunately, it all came well in the end. My lad is quite the specimen, is he not?”

“Quite,” Dorian says. Any less would be an insult to the guest; any more would risk his parents’ wrath even more than he already has. The slave remains motionless under his hand, a perfect living statue, gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

Dorian wonders what he would see if he raised the slave’s chin and looked into his eyes now.

That is another unsettling thought, and one which he does not have time to pursue. “Come, Fenris,” says Danarius, and the slave slips neatly out from under Dorian’s hand and rises to return to his master’s side. Rather than going back to his place against the wall, he kneels again, and Danarius pats him absentmindedly. The talk turns to other subjects.

Dorian does his best to keep a light manner, but the evening is rattling him more than he likes and he is keenly conscious of his parents’ disapproval. Still, he did once aim to cause scandal that night, and if he cannot please his parents he can at least please himself and admire the artwork. Talk swirls on around him: his father’s studies, Danarius’s planned trip to one of the outer islands, the barbarism of the Qunari. The usual pleasant chatter which means nothing.

When Danarius departs, though, he turns at the door and looks again to Dorian. “You must come and visit me some time,” he says. “Your company will no doubt be a fine diversion after the dirt of Seheron.”

 

* * *

 

This does not come to pass.

Dorian’s world is soon washed away on a tide of blood magic. Rather than fighting a marriage, he must fight for his soul—and so, it seems, for the soul of Tevinter itself. He can laugh well enough still, but he has little time for art.

 

* * *

 

Ten years later and a world away, he halts in the door of the Herald’s Rest and stares at a ghost.

The Rest is louder than usual. Hawke is back, and wherever Hawke goes, chaos and cutthroat card games always follow. Almost a dozen people, many of them unfamiliar, are seated around a long table so crowded with mugs and bottles that there’s almost no room for the cards. Varric is dealing, while a dark-haired Dalish woman in a green scarf giggles at a joke the dwarf has just told and Scout Harding discreetly sneaks a look at the woman’s hand. Hawke, Fade-scarred and giving not a single damn about it, is lazily eyeing the cards held in front of her by a pair of hands that are not hers. The hands are long and silver-laced, and as Hawke shifts forward to say something to the Dalish woman, Dorian realizes she is sitting in the lap of someone who ought to be dead.

The slave. _The_ slave. The slave is _here_ , in the Herald’s Rest, and if it weren’t for the Champion Dorian might not have spotted him.

But now that he sees him, he can’t look away. Maker, it's all the same. Brilliant green eyes under dark brows, the tousled mop of white hair, brown skin cut through by lines of glimmering silver.

What throws Dorian the most, though, is that the slave is _smiling._

He realizes the ridiculousness of his own thoughts a second later, and a hot rush of shame almost drowns his surprise and incredulity. Of course a slave can smile—slaves are people, after all, bound by hideous circumstances but deserving of happiness and freedom, and he will swear it until the day he dies—but _this_ slave, this exquisite piece of runecrafting, has been preserved in his memory as a sleek and willing object. Even the few fantasies Dorian had entertained in the days following that dinner had pictured this slave kneeling tame before him, as responsive and obedient as only a truly well-executed piece of magic should be.

Dorian has grown up, fled his country, and made a life for himself that spits on the ashes of everything the rulers of Tevinter stand for, but he rarely has cause to open up that corner of his memories. There the slave has rested, pliant and beautiful and not quite real, until Dorian stumbled upon the real thing once again.

And the real thing is indeed smiling, a small wry quirk of the lips, as Hawke makes herself comfortable in his lap and leans back against his shoulder. He wears a dark leather jerkin and leggings in the Dalish fashion—barefoot, Dorian sees, and this one small jolt of familiarity further imbalances the world around him. The slave’s hands are bared as well, but the pair of segmented steel gauntlets on the table beside him show that this is not a habitual state. Perhaps he has only removed them so as not to damage the cards.

He flicks through the cards now, selecting two and sliding them across to Varric. The dwarf accepts the offering from the dream creature and calmly draws two more for him, surely unaware of who he is dealing to. As the new cards slide back across the table, Varric says something, and the slave laughs. The hoarse chuckle sends a prickle down Dorian’s spine.

“That’s not fair,” Hawke complains, poking the slave—the wolf—the _elf_ in the thigh. “One time. It was one time!”

“One time is all it takes, Waffles,” Varric says. “Look, are you going to actually play, or just lounge around on your new armchair all night?”

“Fenris isn’t an armchair.” That gets a mutter of agreement from the elf. “He’s more like a … chaise longue. Or a fainting couch. Something I can drape myself over to look pretty and delicate.”

Dorian leans forward a little, almost not realizing what he’s doing. For the first time in his life, he is about to hear the sla—elf speak.

“If you’re planning to faint on me,” the elf says, “do me the courtesy of not spilling my drink again.”

His voice is surprisingly deep for an elf, with a rough edge to it that reminds Dorian of Iron Bull. It also carries a touch of sarcasm dryer than the Western Approaches, and Hawke pokes him in the thigh again. “That was also one time,” she informs him. “Do you and Varric just like keeping score of all the stupid things I’ve done?”

“Yes,” the dwarf and elf say simultaneously.

“Don’t worry, though,” Varric adds, shuffling the cards again and pushing a handful of coppers towards the center of the table. “I’m saving all that stuff for the special edition.”

That gets a groan from the Champion. “Haven’t you made enough money off my sordid adventures?”

“Sordid?” Varric shoots a glance at the elf. “You better watch yourself, Fenris. Apparently she’s been having _sordid adventures_. You didn’t leave her alone with Isabela, did you?”

“I certainly hope not,” the elf says. “Last time, she came back with fleas.”

Hawke glowers. “I hate you both.”

“We love you too, Hawke.”

“No you don’t.” Hawke shoots a glance at the cards in front of her. “Oh, look! Four of a kind, Serpents over Virtues.”

There’s a chorus of groans around the table as four people immediately fold. Two others perk up and add to their bets. The elf mutters “Venhedis!” and drops his cards on the table.

Dorian can’t help chuckling at that. Hawke relaxes back into Fenris’s arms, draping herself over him and doing her best to indeed look fainting and delicate. It’s not a skill of hers. But then, Fenris is not a chaise longue: no woman ever draped herself quite so fondly over a piece of furniture. Her head lolls back into the crook of the elf’s neck, and even when he huffs and shifts her to prevent her sheathed knife digging into someplace sensitive, he smiles at her open affection. Dorian feels his heart twist just a little at the sight.

A piece of his past is here, in the Herald’s Rest. A small piece, minuscule compared to his father in the Redcliffe tavern, but here all the same. Danarius died years ago, and his “little wolf” is a rough-voiced, sardonic gambler with a full glass of wine at his elbow and the Champion of Kirkwall in his arms. This is not how things should be.

No, he’s wrong. The piece is not as it _was._ It is, however, as it should be.

A piece of his past is here, and it’s been taken out of memory and made real. Made better. A piece of Tevinter, fleshed out from art and magic into _life._

Dorian steps back towards the door. The elf does not look up, and that is well enough. Perhaps they will meet again later, for the second and first time, and Dorian can truly meet the man he once knew as a slave and a wolf. For now, it twists both sadness and happiness through him to simply know that Fenris has been brought out of the past and made into something that can live. His father begs for his forgiveness, and Danarius’s slave plays cards with a loving woman in his lap.

If there is a chance for Fenris, then perhaps there is a chance for Tevinter. Dorian silently bids farewell to one last shard of his former life and leaves the tavern.


End file.
